After Canterbury, I wanted to post something really upbeat and I owe it to some friends, who you will meet shortly, to do just that. But the mood turned a couple of days ago and I need to get that off my chest as well. So here is a quick summary of what went on in between.
The first signs for Via Francigena reinforced my excitement. No longer heading to Canterbury - been there, done that. We are going to Rome.
The ferry is late due to bad weather over the channeI. I do not love boats of any kind, and the slight roll I feel as I walk across the cabin is not reassuring. Nor is there much to see in the haze that could distract me. But as we approach port, the sun peaks his nose, as Patrick would say, and voila!, France.
At the citadel-like abbey, home to a sisterhood of just 16, the last novice took her vows 15 years ago - religion, it seems, is no longer a growth business in France. But this Abbey holds a wonderful surprise outside its walls, a guesthouse that is every American's idea of France, presided over by the ebullient Sister Lucie, 50 years a resident at the abbey. Without her habit, she'd be mistaken for a most charming hostess of a country B&B. 
We take a path into Dover that avoids the muddied fields made squiggy under foot (real Brit-speak I picked up in Oxford a few years ago) by a sudden afternoon downpour and enter Dover beside it's great fort overlooking the city. After descending to the city, we turn left and track beside white chalk cliffs fronted by transient hotels and boarding houses. Not surprising. The ferry terminal is just to the right. For some, their first footsteps in Britain are to a home in these ramshackles.
The ferry is late due to bad weather over the channeI. I do not love boats of any kind, and the slight roll I feel as I walk across the cabin is not reassuring. Nor is there much to see in the haze that could distract me. But as we approach port, the sun peaks his nose, as Patrick would say, and voila!, France.
Our particular road to Rome takes us on an excursion to Dunkerque. Beatrice and Paul, who I met on the Camino Frances, meet the ferry. I introduce them to Patrick, and they open their home to us.
I met Beatrice and Paul early in my walk from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Compostela. They had already been walking a month. I did not know them but I shared some wine with them. Not so unusual on the Camino. I didn't see them again until a few days before my arrival in Compostela. At first, we did not recall having met earlier, though Paul, who has an excellent memory, eventually recalled the shared Rioja. For reasons of some walking slower and some faster, I had separated from the little community I was part of during my transit as they had from theirs. In this hostel, three days from our objective, we were each cooking our dinner and were left to eat alone. On a very small three sided table attached to a wall, we crowded together and ate, made conversation, and filled an emptiness we each were feeling. I shared an orange. Beatrice tells me she recalls that moment to this day. Every time she eats an orange, she says, it tastes sweeter for that experience. 
She was a teacher, and is a sweet and giving person, as is Paul, who dedicated his career to people with mental disabilities. Now, in retirement, he is a rather accomplished artist. I cannot say enough good things about these two fine people.
She was a teacher, and is a sweet and giving person, as is Paul, who dedicated his career to people with mental disabilities. Now, in retirement, he is a rather accomplished artist. I cannot say enough good things about these two fine people.Sunday afternoon, after a tour of the city, a visit to the cathedral to get our credentials stamped, and lunch cooked by Beatrice, they drive us back to Calais, near to where they picked us up. 
We begin our march through France from in front of Rodin's Burghers of Calais in situ. I enjoyed the next few days, the small country roads, the fields, and the vistas, not very different from what we experienced in England. Each gîte or chambre d'hôte was unique and hospitable, but I want to end this post with our stay in Wisques at the little guesthouse outside the walls of the Abbey Notre Dame.
I've stayed in a number of abbeys, monasteries and parish houses during my walks and I am always struck by the obvious lack of funds these institutions must deal with. 
But in Sister Lucie's capable hands, the worn furnishings become a chic aesthetic.
Simple and comfortable, I was so taken by it that I must share more than my usual number of photos. 
The pleasant, flower emblazoned environment, was all the more special for what was to come. 
Soon after leaving, the weather turned chill and gloomy, as did my mood. I stepped from spring to winter, for on this part of the road to Rome, ghosts stalk the wilds. I entered the region of the Somme.